


Atomic Orange

by DeansDirtyLittleSecret



Series: Supernatural Drabbles [11]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-09-19 22:43:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17010546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeansDirtyLittleSecret/pseuds/DeansDirtyLittleSecret
Summary: Sam paints your toenails.





	Atomic Orange

You stretched, trying to reach your toes, stopping when you felt the stitches in your lower back and the ones in your left thigh pulling taut. You sighed loudly. You’d only managed to paint a couple of your toes and those ones didn’t look so great. But you sure the hell weren’t going to sit here with eight unpainted toes.

“Sam!” you yelled. You waited a couple of seconds, but when you didn’t hear him coming down the hallway, you tried again. “SAM!”

You heard the sound of boots running down the hall and then Sam appeared in the doorway. “Y/N, what’s wrong? Are you okay?”

You nodded, grinning sheepishly. “Would you paint my toenails?”

“Will I what?” Sam asked.

“Paint my toenails,” you replied. “I can’t reach because of the stitches and I was hoping -”

Sam sighed and leaned against the doorjamb, a defeated look on his face. You felt kind of bad for him; it had been a trying week for all three of you, but probably more so for Sam than you or Dean. After all, Sam had been the only one not hurt during the vamp hunt, he’d walked away unscathed, while you had ended up with stitches in your thigh and lower back, and Dean had dislocated his shoulder and gotten a pretty bad concussion. Sam had run around all week taking care of both of you, back and forth between your rooms, cooking for both of you, waiting on both of you, basically your slave. Maybe asking him to paint your toenails was too much.

“Nevermind,” you muttered. “I shouldn’t have asked.”

“No, no,” he grinned, stepping through the door. “I’ll do it.” He sat at the end of your bed, pulling your legs into your lap, careful not to touch your stitches. You couldn’t help but stare at his hands, they were so huge, the fingers long and strong. His thumb brushed against your ankle, sending a shiver through you.

Sam looked questioningly at you over his shoulder. “Cold?” he asked.

“N…no,” you whispered. You held out the bottle of nail polish, avoiding looking directly at him.

He took it, a tiny smirk playing at the corner of his lips, his dimples showing. “Orange?” he chuckled.

“Excuse you,” you grinned. “It’s Atomic Orange.” You crossed your arms and glared playfully at him.

“Okay,” he laughed. “Atomic Orange.” He spun the lid off, staring at it like it was a monster he had to kill, watching it drip back into the bottle.

“It’s just nail polish, Sam,” you said.

“Yeah, sorry,” he sighed. He held the nail polish between two fingers as he held your foot, gingerly, examining it carefully. He set to work, carefully painting each toe, stopping every few seconds to critique his work.

You relaxed back against the pillows, smiling at Sam, even though he couldn’t see you. You kind of liked the feel of his hands on your legs and feet. Actually, you liked it a lot. And when he blew on your toes, attempting to dry the polish, you felt heat pooling in the pit of your stomach. You closed your eyes, imagining that this was happening under completely different circumstances, wishing it was happening under different circumstances.

“All done,” Sam muttered far too soon. He closed the polish and tossed it to you. But instead of getting up and leaving like you expected, he stayed at the end of the bed, your feet in his lap, his long fingers gently massaging the pads of your feet.

You were afraid to move, to breathe, for fear that he would stop. You weren’t sure what was happening, where this was going, but you never wanted it to end. You watched him, waiting for him to say something, anything.

“Sam?” you finally murmured when you just couldn’t take it anymore.

He stood up, laying your feet gently on the bed. He smiled gently at you. “I like that color,” he said quietly. “It looks good on you.” He turned to leave.

“Sam, wait,” you pleaded.

“Later, Y/N,” he promised. “When you’re in one piece, healed.” He chuckled low in the back of his throat. “Maybe I’ll paint your toes again. But next time, I get to choose the color.”


End file.
